


to guard and guide you

by WolffyLuna



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dom/sub, Explicit Consent, F/M, Face-Sitting, Femdom, Fight Scenes, Oral Sex, POV Female Character, Penis In Vagina Sex, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Setting: I Can't Believe It's Not D&D!, Sharing a Bed, Undressing, Unwilling Master, accidental slave acquisition, manual sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:55:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22431451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolffyLuna/pseuds/WolffyLuna
Summary: Zeska is not going to have a slave. Nuh-uh. She is definitely not going to ownanyone. No matter how much the drow warrior she accidentally captured insists on it.
Relationships: Female Adventurer/Male Drow She Captured Who Wants Her To Keep Him, Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 27
Kudos: 119
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	to guard and guide you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frozensea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frozensea/gifts).



> Based on these prompts: "She's not quite sure what to make of this request. Why does he want to stay with her? Is she the lesser of two evils? Does he feel duty-bound to serve her somehow? Or is he so embarrassed that she managed to capture him, that he couldn't possibly live with the shame among his own people? And she not really on board with the whole "keeping" him aspect, besides, he's more than a little creepy-looking. On the other hand, he has her back in a fight and keeps doing small, nice things for her that make this whole adventuring business a whole lot easier, so maybe she'll give this a try. Just for a few days... which turn into weeks, and months of fighting together, surviving together, sharing meals at an open fire and stories until late at night... and suddenly she realizes that he's not so creepy-looking anymore." and  
> "I am also really into the idea of a badass warrior drow happily subbing to an enthusiastic adventurer, who's maybe a little clueless at first as to what exactly he wants from her, but catches on after a little nudging."
> 
> I hope you like this!

Zeska and the rest of her party hurried through the Underdark. Pelori—a sweet and slighty naïve cleric—tried to stay just behind her back, gripping her staff tight in white knuckles, with a globe of light bobbing just above her head. Jenkins-- a ‘merchant’ and halfling who really needed to be strangled right now— took the rear, with an air of deliberate and deeply irritating nonchalance. It’d be nice if he could have had the decency to at least look worried, considering he was the reason they were probably being pursued by at least one angry drow wizard, with at least one bodyguard.

They’d got the books there were looking for. Magic books had one of the best weight to value ratios around, if you knew who to sell them to, and Jenkins knew who to sell him to. He’d found the job from the court wizard up top. Said wizard was willing to pay a year’s _adventurer’s_ salary for each of them if they got the books to him.

The tricky bit would be getting the books to him. Wizards didn’t tend to like it when you stole their books. Funny that. 

Why did she ever take the jobs Jenkins found again? Even if the pay was _that_ good? “Jenkins, remind me when we get out of here that I need to murder you,” she said, narrowly avoiding slipping on the algae growing on the dank tunnel floors. They were being chased, they couldn’t go fast without risking running into something nastier or falling down a hole, and they stood out like a sore thumb with Pelori’s light signposting them. And it was all _his_ fault.

“While I do not agree with the way it is expressed, I do agree with the sentiment,” Pelori said, out of breath.

“I doubt you’ll be thinking of _that_ on the surface. I know you: you’ll both be thinking of the payday, and the fact I know where more of those come from.”

…he was right _. Damnit_.

He continued. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure we shook them off.”

From a tunnel branching off in front of theirs, came the sound of running footsteps. Loud, heavy, fast, not even trying to hide they were coming. Why would they? This close to the city, the scariest things in the tunnel were the drow, and guess what was making those footsteps.

Zeska skidded to a stop, and drew her sword. “Jenkins—don’t talk. Ever again.”

She listened to the footsteps, ears twitching a little. At least two drow, and at least one wizard. That was who was chasing them. Her party might have the numbers advantage—but you never wanted to fight a wizard. Especially if they also had a guard stopping you from targeting them easily.

This would not be fun.

She drew a deep breath, and started to gather power. If they were facing off with a wizard, she was going to take any magical advantage she could get. She may not have been as a good as a wizard—and most wizards would say she was merely a hack with a bad habit of making up spells—but she had ways of making magic do what she wanted, and she’d made up spells none of them knew. Like _web shackle_. Homes in on the target’s arms, and ties them behind their back. Stops a wizard from casting, and stop a warriors from swinging a sword at you. Best way to get at least one of them out of the fight, fast.

The first one around the corner into their tunnel was the bodyguard. Armoured in reinforced leathers, armed with a longsword, running right at her. He held the sword low, but she couldn’t tell where he was going to swing it, he didn’t even have a twitch of a telegraph. And he just—stared at her, as he charged towards her. He stared at her with an intensity as sharp as his sword’s edge.

She should have saved the spell for the wizard. She was going to be the bigger threat. Almost certainly.

But with that warrior, running right at her, sword ready to cut something important off--

The spell flew from her fingers.

He tried to dodge, but didn’t dodge far enough.

The web caught his left hand, and pulled it back as it shot out and grabbed his right.

Most people running that fast, with their arms caught like that, would topple right over. He almost fell. He caught himself, turning the momentum into a fluid kneel, reading to spring back up again. He didn’t drop his sword.

The wizard came around the corner, already most of the way through a spell.

A flash of prickling heat grew around them, and a few embers floated gently in the still air.

“Get down!” Zeska shouted.

She got to the floor just before the fire ball washed over her. She scrambled up—burnt, but only first degree, and only on the few parts of her that were bare of armour.

The drow warrior made a bit off noise of pain.

Zeska risked a glance at him.

The wizard hadn’t avoided him in her blast.

And the webs binding him had gone up like tinder. No worse than tinder. Tinder didn’t stick to you, didn’t melt.

He dropped his sword, and rolled on the ground, trying to put the flames out.

He was definitely out of the fight, at least for now.

Jenkins stood half up, and fired his crossbow at the wizard.

The dart landed in her gut. She grabbed the shaft, like the pain nearly made her pull it out on instinct, but she caught herself before she did it.

Pelori had been caught bad in the fireball – though maybe not as bad as the drow warrior, seeing as she was still up, and ready to fight. And ready to call down a light strike.

A column of light, bright like lightning but soft like gas-light, landed on the wizard.

Zeska’s vision turned into a harsh monochrome, and the wizard into a sharp silhouette.

The light disappeared as soon as it landed.

Smoke curled up from the wizard’s robes. It was never good to be on the receiving end of a light strike, but worse if you were evil. She paused, thinking fast. She would really want those books back—but at the cost of her own life? And if she recognised light strike, then she knew she was up against a party with a cleric. No one wanted to tangle with a wizard, but no one wanted to tangle with a cleric with a _team_.

The wizard ran, dripping blood as she went.

Zeska sheathed her sword. “I’m not going to bother following.” No point fighting a cornered wizard if you didn’t have to. Plus, there was a fair chance with a wound like that, the wizard was already dead, and just hadn’t realised it.

Jenkins smoothed his hair back, in another show of affected nonchalance. “Sounds good to me.”

The drow warrior stayed on the ground, quiet, but clearly in pain. The flames were out, but the webs had melted onto the skin of his arms. And were still hot, too. She could see, just poking out of the edges of the webs, his burned flesh, red and raw and already weeping plasma.

Zeska hissed, involuntarily. It looked _nasty._

Pelori walked over, hand gently glowing with a healing spell.

The drow spotted her coming towards him, and tried to get away, kicking with his legs to propel himself backwards—

\--and dragging his burned arms along the rough ground of the tunnel.

He stopped, and crumpled, face scrunched up in pain.

Pelori caught up with him, and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. New skin grew over the burns, from the edges in, covering his arms without even a scar.

He opened his eyes, and stared back at Pelori.

She smiled. “Are you feeling better?”

He didn’t respond, or change expression, but did sit up, arms still pinned behind his back by the melted webbing.

“Did you _have_ to do that?” Jenkins asked Pelori.

“He was the most injured,” Pelori said, walking over to heal up Zeska. “And he hadn’t harmed us.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Jenkins said.

“He was probably ordered to. And look where that got him! Poor sod,” Zeska said. As Pelori healed her, she turned her head and murmured a ‘thank you.’

The warrior still did not respond to any if this.

Jenkins waved off Pelori’s glowing hand—the worst the fireball had done was singe his eyebrows.

Pelori healed herself, and looked back at the drow. “Do you speak common, dear?”

No response.

Zeska sighed. “I’ll take it.” Drow and surface elven may not have been the same dialect, but were mutually intelligible. Yay for being half elven, and having your dad insist on learning his language—you get to have awkward conversations with drow warriors!

(She did actually appreciate her dad’s commitment to making sure she could be properly elf-y and stuff, and it was probably better than not that they had one person who could speak to him, but _ugh_. This would not be a fun conversation.)

She squatted down in front of him. “I’m assuming you were ordered to attack us?”

“Why would I attack you otherwise?” he said, flatly. 

“’Cause you didn’t like the look of our faces? Really care about literature?” she suggested.

He frowned, and kept staring at her. With his pink irises, and pupils that were pinpricks in Pelori’s light, it was a very intense stare. Maybe not as intense as when he was charging her—but this close up, the effect was almost the same.

“If we let you go, do you promise not to harm us?”

“Of course. I would be following you.”

She smiled, bight and sweet and oh so fake. “—Pardon?”

“You won me.” He used you-singular, not you-plural, which had some mighty off-putting implications. “I will follow you.” Same singular you. He spoke slowly, as if slowing down would make him somehow make more sense.

“Pal, I win _against_ people, I don’t win people.”

He cocked his head. “You just did.”

“I have absolutely zero intention to… own you!”

“But you do.” He paused. “I would very much appreciate it if you allow me to follow you.”

This was so not ideal. She wouldn’t complain about having an extra member of the party—but nope! Not owning people. She may not have been the nicest person, she may have been okay with stealing if she could come up with half a justification, but she had ethics! Owning people was definitely against them! Even if they suggested it! “If I allow you to follow me, but I don’t _own_ you because—” she doubted ‘because that’s wrong’ would fly with a drow who seemed to have a complex about this “—because of peculiar moral reasons, would that be okay with you?”

He shrugged. “If it’s merely a matter of phrasing.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s really, really not, but I’ll take it.”

He nodded. “I am very glad of that, then.”

She turned back to her party, and went back to Common. “He promises he won’t harm us, and would really like to follow us.”

“I mean, I’m not complaining about having an extra pair of hands—” Jenkins said.

Pelori cut in. “You don’t seem happy about this.” She looked straight at Zeska,

Zeska sighed. “He wants to follow us because he thinks I own him.”

Pelori’s eyes widened with understanding. “Ah, I see—”

“Tried to dissuade him, didn’t work.”

Jenkins had the bright-eyed look he got when he came up with a money-making scheme.

She pointed a finger at him. “No. Don’t you dare.”

Jenkins waved a hand. “Of course I’d pay him,” he said, if that solved all the moral issues around this matter. “But think of the business opportunities!”

“I won’t,” she said, but it was already too late. Jenkins almost certainly meant the opportunity of using him as a mercenary-- but an incredibly stupid and traitorous part of her brain dreamed up the mental image of him wearing semi transparent silks, carrying a loft a tray of tiny cakes as he worked at Jenkins’ “uncle’s” “tea house.”

It was a disturbing image. Firstly, there was the matter of his intense, flat stare. This was not conducive to serving cakes attractive manner. Secondly, he was built like a double muscled sight hound, all lank and bulk in deeply weird combination. There people who would probably be into someone wearing not that much clothes (and with what clothes they were wearing being mostly see through), but not her. He’d just look weird. Deeply weird. Yep.

She turned back to the drow, trying to chase away them image. “The team says you can come.” She walked around behind him, his pink eyes tracking her all the way. She drew a short knife, and cut the webbing off his arms. “What’s your name?”

He brought his arms back in front of him, and starting picking off the rest of the webbing. “Churoth.”

“Zeska.” She pointed at the rest of your party. “Pelori, Jenkins. A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she said, trying not to sound deeply sarcastic.

* * *

They walked on, for as long as it seemed reasonable length of time (it was weird judging time in the Underdark, with no sun or moon to double check against), before setting up tents and dinner.

Churoth helped with the pitching the tents, as best he could around the language barrier.

Jenkins went to some pains to stop him from helping with the dinner preparations. “You know what drow are like,” he said to the rest of the party, in Common, with Churoth definitely in hearing range. “They love poisons.”

Churoth was either a marvelous actor, or he really didn’t speak a lick of Common.

Jenkins murmured at to party. “And I wouldn’t want him on any watches. Not yet, anyway.”

Zeska shrugged. “Seems fair. I’ll take first.”

Jenkins grumbled. “You always get first.”

“Because I always ask for it first.”

Churoth disappeared partway through dinner. Zeska guessed it was to go find a quiet place to relieve himself, but he never came back.

Not all through dinner, or all her watch. Maybe he’d decided to leave, and head back to his city? She couldn’t bring herself to mind the idea. As much as having another sword hand around would be nice—having one she owned was deeply _aaaaaaghhh_.

She went into Jenkins’ tent, and nudged him awake with her foot.

“Why do I get middle watch” he protested, blearily.

“Because Pelori remembered to ask for morning.”

He dragged himself out of bed, grumbling.

Zeska yawned, and went into her tent, fully intending to fall down face first and pass out.

She couldn’t. There was already someone in her bed.

Churoth lay on top of the bed roll, in a full on ‘paint me like one of your Chekenthian girls’ pose, wearing just underclothes, and looking at her with his trademark intense stare. “What would you like me to do?” he asked, quietly.

“Not be in my bed!”

He got up without a word, and headed out.

She realised belatedly, that if he headed out, he wouldn’t have a bed to sleep in. They’d only brought three beds and tents, because they had packed on the bizarre assumption that they wouldn’t have anyone decide one of the party owned them.

And he’d also probably try and help Jenkins with his watch—which might have been a good idea, but Jenkins certainly wouldn’t agree! And she did not want to play translator for _that_ argument.

She headed out, and caught up with Churoth. “No, it’s okay, you can be in there.”

He turned around to face her, looking confused—and yep, still doing the staring thing. “If you do not wish me to be in your bed, I will not be.”

“Being in my bed is—fine.” She wasn’t thrilled about it—but there were only three beds, and _someone_ had to share. And considering that she was the one he was following around, and the only one he could talk to, it kinda made sense. She still wasn’t super happy about it, but what could you do? “But if we’re going to share a bed roll, we’re going to share it as colleagues.” She realised that maybe drow norms about colleagues might be… odd. “—In the least sexual way possible.”

He nodded his assent, and they headed back in.

They slept back to back, for maximum propriety.

She should have been awake all night. She should have stayed up, in fear that this might be a plot, that he might be about turn on her and stab her—

\--but being warm always knocked her out, and mammal warmth did it even better.

Churoth was like an unusually soft and cuddly furnace.

She passed almost immediately.

* * *

When she awoke, Churoth was gone.

She bumbled her was out of the tent, rubbing the sleep grit out of her eyes. Maybe he had actually moved on in the middle of the night--

Churoth was by the fire with Pelori, making breakfast via the medium of charades.

* * *

Over the next week or so, Churoth proved himself useful, and reasonably trustworthy. He helped with the cooking and the foraging and the watching, and even warned them of a nearby mind flayer lair.

Jenkins even let him take a watch.

Zeska silently celebrated that.

He was also a good conversation partner, too, even if only she could understand him. It was a nice break to get away from Jenkins’ glibness and greed, and Pelori’s idealism and naiveté. Churoth was quiet, and serious, but he _understood_ things. And as drow went, he seemed like a pretty good guy. Capital-G good, even. Sure, he may not have cared about spreading goodness and light or saving the whole world—but he’d fiercely protect his allies and confidantes. And that was about as much as you could say for most humans, anyway.

They even got used to sleeping in the same bed. He kept the covers toasty in the cold Underdark, and was a pretty quiet sleeper. It was nice, if you ignored the fact that you accidentally owned your bed partner. And at least he’d gotten less—weird about it. She was pretty sure she still considered her his master, but at least he wasn’t saying as much all the time, and wasn’t repeatedly offering his body? It was something.

As they got to the surface, his ability to guide them fell away. They weren’t at risk of getting lost—say what you want about Jenkins, but he knew where to find the good cartographers-- but it meant they didn’t avoid the kobold ambush.

To young adventurers, a kobold ambush sounded like a pleasant sojourn. Why would you ever be worried about a kobold ambush? Which, up on the surface, might be true. Surface kobolds weren’t hard to handle.

But down here, near the big kobold cities? Oh boy.

A kobold ambush down here wasn’t getting waylaid by cowardly chittering lizards with sharp sticks.

It was far, far worse.

The first they knew of it was Pelori disappearing with a yelp.

Followed shortly by a scream.

Zeska looked around, but she’d disappeared out of sight. Where could she be? “Pelori?” she called out.

“Down here!”

She blinked, and a section of floor shimmered. Illusion magic. Illusion magic covering a pit trap. “Are you alright?”

A small voice came from under fake stone floor. “…I will be.”

All at once, the walls shimmered to. Kobolds jumped through the illusion walls, halberds bright and deadly. They surrounded them.

Her party drew their weapons.

Something else came through the walls. A dragonborn mercenary swaggered out, sword shimmering with enchantment.

Churoth looked straight at them, his stare going icy. He always stared, but Zeska had started to be able to read them a bit. This was somewhere between cold rage and battlelust.

The lead kobold shouted, and the rest of the kobolds tightened their circles.

Zeska slashed at them, trying to buy space to break out. But she could see out of the corner of her eye Churoth charging towards the dragonborn. He jumped right over the heads of the kobolds between him and the mercenary, and the little lizards were too shocked to try and stab him out of the air.

She couldn’t focus on the fight, and she just hoped Churoth hadn’t bitten off more than he could chew fighting the dragonborn one on one.

The circle shifted, trying to herd them towards the pit trap. (Which seemed to be full of spikes, from the noises Pelori was making.)

Zeska fought back, trying to keep her place, casting frost and fire and webs to try and win her some space.

Kobold ambush: hard to deal with. Individual kobolds: easy peasy. They were trained and reasonable well armed, but even with their halberds, she and them had even reach. And she had even more training. It may have been dirty work, but it was quick.

They’d taken down a third of them, and the kobolds still weren’t running away. She didn’t understand. Down here, you took out a third, and the rest fled to fight another day. Why weren’t they running away.

Ice went through her veins, as she worked out the reason why.

…it was the mercenary. They were counting them as three, or five, or whatever.

If that was the case, they must have been _pretty fucking scary_.

She glanced over towards the fight between them and Churoth, hoping against hope he was okay.

Churoth’s arm bled from a nasty gash on his arm. It should have been a fight ending injury—not life ending, by itself, but with no healing and someone going at you with a sword, it may as well have been.

But he just compensated for it. It looked effortless—it couldn’t have been, using a hand-and-a-half sword one handed like that, but Churoth made that sword look feather light, and like his other arm didn’t bother him at all.

The mercenary brought down their guard a fraction, wondering why Churoth wasn’t running, or healing, or making a mistake.

That fraction was too much.

Churoth feinted low, and turned the sword’s momentum into a high swing. It cut between the neck joint of the mercenary’s armour.

They clutched at their neck, realisation dawning on them, before they fall down like the sack of wet meat they were.

The kobolds fled then.

Jenkins went over to help Pelori out of the pit.

(“Why haven’t you healed yourself?” he asked, sounding half-confused and half annoyed.

“I wanted to wait in case someone was worse off.”

_“What?”)_

Churoth cleaned the blood off his sword, using a cloth he kept folded up in a pocket.

“Good job,” Zeska said. Because _damn_ , that was impressive.

He looked up at her and stared.

She could read that stare. She wasn’t sure if it was better or worse now that she could read his stare and understand what it meant.

She could see the exclamation mark hovering over his head. The way he flushed dark, almost jet black. If he was less restrained, he would have been giddily bouncing on his heels.

It was the happiest and most surprised she’d seen him.

Sure, he may not have been smiling—but he didn’t smile. He just stared. At this was a pretty fucking thrilled stare.

And then he quickly looked back down at his sword, pretending that didn’t happen.

She didn’t comment. It was an extreme reaction, sure—but he probably didn’t get complimented enough as a kid, or something. Let he who hasn’t had a weird and extreme reaction to something innocuous cast the first stone.

At least Jenkins was facing the other way—Churoth’d never hear the end of it if Jenkins saw it, even if he couldn’t understand what he was saying.

* * *

That night, Zeska dreamed of Churoth.

She dreamed of him in silks, serving tiny cakes in Jenkin’s “uncle’s” “teahouse.”

Her minds eye had changed the image— well, maybe not the image. Changed how she interpreted it. He was no longer over-muscled and odd proportioned. Now he was built like the ideal swordsman, toned muscle all over, with his strongest muscles in his shoulders and arms, and long limbs for reach and speed.

He made his way around the tables, handing out tiny fruit covered meringues and over-iced cupcakes to the guests.

And each guest in turn told him what a good job he was doing.

He fucking beamed. Maybe most of them couldn’t tell it, but she could.

He may have still been serious faced and staring to most people’s eyes, but to hers he was happy and over-joyed and so flushed and sweaty that he glowed.

And each time he passed by her table, she went to an effort to give him the Best Praise. Not the most effusive. She couldn’t do effusive. But she complimented his form, the way he walked across the room with perfect balance, the way he held the tray with great efficiency, told him he was the best one serving today, calculating which sentence got him to almost smile.

She woke up with a start, sweaty and with heat coiling in her groin.

At least she wasn’t wet. It limited the ways Churoth could have noticed. Even if he did, he probably wouldn’t have commented, let alone _asked_ —but nope. Not going to let him notice.

He kept on sleepy like a lump.

She had the strange temptation to reach over and ruffle his hair.

* * *

They walked on for longer than they’d planned, to make certain they were out of range of whatever kobold enclave had attacked them. They walked until they were full of bone deep weariness, legs heavy and aching, fingers barely nimble enough to put up the tents. They didn’t even bother cooking. If they tried, they probably would have fallen asleep and set fire to something.

Zeska stumbled into her tent, and fought with the attachments of her breastplate. She could take it off herself, she had done it hundreds of times before—but her fingers had been replaced with stiff wooden pegs, and her mind with jelly. They weren’t coming undone.

She bit off a scream of frustration. She just wanted to go to bed! She just wanted to take her breastplate off! She needed to do that to go to bed!

Churoth paused behind her, closer than he usually stood. He stood so close, she could feel the heat radiating off his chest. “Would you like some help?”

She wanted to say no. She wanted to be able to do this for herself, not have to get his help. And-- It felt like too much to ask. He thought she owned him, and it seemed wrong to ask him for help he would take as an order. So, she shouldn’t ask him for anything she could do herself. It would be unfair, otherwise.

But her fingers hadn’t gotten any nimbler. …This probably counted as a thing she could not do herself. Her shoulders dropped in resignation. “Yes.” 

He undid the clasps holding her armour on, quickly and efficiently. She felt the pressure of his fingers through her gambeson, but it was mere business-like touch. He lifted the armour off her shoulders, and she almost fell over with the relief from that weight.

He put her armour down, and then paused behind her back again. His fingers hovered over the ties of her gambeson, wondering if he should continue.

It’d be nice. The knots always tightened as she wore it, and were a bitch and a half to undo at the best of times.

But the only thing she was wearing underneath were her underclothes. And he’d seen her in her underclothes, many times—but it was different asking him to strip her down to them. And this was a thing she could do herself. Even if the ties tightened, they weren’t at the same awkward angle the breastplate clasps were.

She shouldn’t ask.

“I’ve got it,” she said, as she fought the knots with sweaty fingers.

He nodded—maybe a touch reluctant, but she was probably just imagining that—and went about taking his own armour off.

* * *

The next week or so was uneventful, except for the air freshening up a hair as they got close to the surface.

Zeska looked forward to it. Sunlight! Cool sea breezes! Snow!

…she’d definitely been down here too long if she was looking forward to snow. ( _The ice crunching as she walked across, flakes falling across her skin, frosty water soaking through the lace-holes in her boots_ —yep, she’d been down her too long.) 

She lay down next to Churoth, thinking. They’d be at the surface soon, and—down here, where there were only two people who could question it, she could “own” him. But up there? It just wasn’t sustainable. People’d ask. And she’d answer. She’d say she didn’t own him—because it would be _wrong_ , and she _didn’t—_ and that would upset him. And she had no idea _why_. Why did he care about this so much? Why was he so insistent?

“I think we might have, hmm, a bit of a different cultural context,” she said, massively understating it, and coming at the problem sideways. “And I think we’re misunderstanding each other because of it. You still think I own you.”

“I _know_ you do. But yes.”

“Is there—a reason you’re so keen on me owning you?”

He looked at her, a little confused. “It’s your right.”

“…you might want to go back a step. Explain it to me like I’m a toddler.”

He paused, thinking hard, but not getting anywhere.

“Okay, let’s got at it like this: why wouldn’t you leave right now? You could. You know that, right?” Which she sure hoped he did.

He nodded, in response to her second question. “But there would be the question of what I would eat, and who would try to eat me.”

“But I bet that even if you could magically teleport back, you wouldn’t. At least—I don’t think you would”

“I would not, no.” He sighed, and looked at the tent ceiling. “If I returned, I would be either a failure or a traitor. It would not matter; the punishment is much the same.” He did not elaborate, and honestly, she didn’t want him to.

She could guess, anyway. “But—if I captured you, you’d still be a failure?”

“No, _you_ would be a success, and I your prize. To the hunter goes the game, as it were.” He said it like was a common saying.

“That is one of the creepiest possible ways to phrase that.”

He shrugged. “Maybe so.” He paused, for a few seconds. “I imagine that when we reach the surface, you would want to release me.”

“I really, really don’t want to own people.” She dragged a hand down her face. “I imagine I’d have as much luck explaining it to you as you’d have explaining your position to me. Different cultural contexts, and all that.”

He deflated. “I understand. I would not want to impose.”

“I wouldn’t, like, kick you out. You don’t speak the language—“ _and you’re drow_ “—and it’d be unfair to just kick you out on the streets. I don’t want to own you, I don’t mind you sticking around.” Which she really didn’t. He was good company. She’d be happy to have him as a colleague, or a friend, or—but not a slave.

“I very much do not want to impose. You have been very kind to me.”

“Even ignoring ‘not being an utter dick to the guy I accidentally captured’—you’re a good egg, you know? I’d like to have you around, if you want to stay.”

He half smiled. It was the first time she’d seen the expression, but it seemed more rueful than happy. “I have not heard that phrase before. It is charming.” His face turned serious. “I would like to stay. Before, I followed you out of-- necessity,” he said, sounding like he didn’t want to admit that. “But now, I see you are a good… leader.”

“I’ll take ‘leader.’ Or ‘mentor,’ or ‘guide,’ or—whatever. Just not owner or master or stuff like that. And just as long as you know you could—” she wanted to use a euphemistic phrase, cover up the core, ‘as long as you could tell me to shove it,’ ‘as long as you could tell me to go sit on it and swivel’—but this was something were that could lead to misunderstanding, and she could not take that risk. “--as long as you know you can say no. To anything.”

“If you wish me to say no, of course I would.”

She grabbed a chunk of her own hair. “No, that isn’t what I meant! I don’t want you to guess what you think I want to you to say no to—”

He held a hand up to stop her speaking. “You do not wish me to do anything I would not be comfortable with, or that I would think is wrong. Which is very admirable of you, I must say.”

“You just have shockingly low standards.”

He shrugged. “As such, I would not do anything I would not be comfortable doing, as you would not want me to do that. I wish to… follow you--” (She half expected him to say ‘and make you happy,’ and maybe that’s what he meant, anyway.) “—and so I would not want to do anything against you or your principles, even if it means I must disagree with you.”

“That’s—I’m okay with that. More than okay with that. We’re on the same page.”

“Then let us keep reading from the same book, together.”

* * *

They reached the surface, and Zeska made an effort not to act like a complete weirdo about it. But there was a cool breeze! She’d missed the wind. The Underdark was big enough that outside the cities it wasn’t really stuffy, as such, but the air was still more often than not. But gentle wind, ruffling her hair? It was delightful, and she’d missed it.

Jenkins was also probably trying not to look like he’d gone strange too.

Pelori wasn’t bothering. She’d taken off her shoes, and was walking along the grass beside the road, happily humming to herself.

Churoth shaded his eyes with his hand, as his own hair blatted him in the face from the wind.

“Welcome to the surface,” Zeska said to him. “It has it’s charms.”

“Hmm,” he said, noncommittally.

It was the work of the next two-thirds of a day to reach the nearest town. It wasn’t huge, but enough adventurers passed through on their way to the Underdark that most of their industry was based around them. Weaponsmiths and ropemakers and general tinkerers lined the main street—along with a wide choice in pubs, inns and houses of ill-repute off of it.

They made a beeline to the White Swan—a combination pub and inn, known for the pub catering to the quiet lunch crowd, and an inn that had some of the best mattresses in town.

Oh, to sleep on a proper straw mattress instead of a bedroll--!

The innkeeper blinked at them slowly. “Good to see you back from the Underdark.” She did not comment on the extra person in their party, or what they were. She worked at inn that catered to adventurers—a kobold, a red dragon, and Lord Asmodeus himself could waltz in, and she’d only make a tepid double take.

Jenkins’ went up on tip-toes to nonchalantly lean against the counter. “Three rooms please, if you got them—wait.”

Zeska turned back to Churoth. “Mind sharing again?”

“If you are willing, I am more than happy to.”

Zeska turned to Jenkins. “We can share. Save money that way.”

“Oooh~” Jenkins singsong-ed.

Churoth glared at him.

Jenkins jumped three feet to the left. “Gah!”

“He may not speak common, but he’s not deaf,” Zeska said.

Jenkins swallowed, still being glared at. “Didn’t know that sound was—so-- universal.” He turned back to the innkeeper, who was impassive throughout that whole exchange. “Three rooms will do us.”

Jenkins handed over the deposit to the innkeeper, handed out the keys to the party, and made his way straight to the pub area.

Zeska made her way up the stairs, Churoth following at her heels. The pub might have had some appeal—but she was too tired from the hike for drunken merrymaking, with either strangers or Jenkins.

She flopped backwards on to the bed. She was too awake to sleep, either. Which limited her options of how to fill the time.

Churoth sat on the edge of the bed, going quiet. Not his normal sort of quiet, either. It had a tense, uncomfortable air to it.

“What’cha thinking?” she asked.

“I have… an impertinent question.”

“Okay, rule number—” she counted on her fingers “—three of following me: impertinent questions are very much allowed.”

He gave no reaction to the lame half-joke. He spoke slowly, struggling with the gap between their cultures and dialects, and the complicated subject. “The first night we were together, when you rebuffed me—” he paused, and started again. “I am unsure whether you would, considering our changed circumstances, be interested in me using my body for you.”

She should’ve said no. It would be crossing some sort of boundary, or something, or would have just been weird—but she liked the guy. Honestly. He might not have been who she would have expected to fall for. But—she wasn’t uninterested. If she had to pick someone she knew, right now it’d be him. And back when she ‘owned’ him, it’d definitely be wrong. But now she just lead him—it was probably okay. Especially because he was the one who asked. “…yes. Provided you’re following rule one: you can say no.”

“I would not offer something I was not willing to give.” He picked up her hand, and gently kissed her knuckles. His lips brushed against her, and his breath blew hot against her skin, as he continued speaking. “Not to you.” He said it with such a reverence. That of course he would not offer something he would not give, because it would upset her if he did, it would go against her moral code if he did, so of course he would not.

It was the same thing he’d said before, but in the context, it was very—charming. She’d go for ‘charming’. Because ‘romantic’ seemed to soppy. “What would you like to do?”

“Anything,” he said. He still hadn’t moved his face away from her hand.

“…you’re going to have to be more specific.

He shook his head, and let go of her hand. “I am aware of our different cultural contexts. If I were expecting you to guess, or assume, what I would want, I know that that would go poorly. But I really do mean ‘anything.’ If you want it, I want it for you.”

She looked incredulous.

“And I will certainly let you know if there is an exception.”

Yeah, that’d do. She looked up him up and down. “Anything, huh?” She had not given this much thought. Or, considering her dreams lately, maybe her unconscious had, but her conscious mind certainly hadn’t. But right now she had a smorgasbord of willing drow—and no clue what to do with him. There were so many options, and her brain was falling out and defaulting to “…sex?”, which wasn’t really specific enough.

Maybe she should call it off, give herself some time to think. Think of whether this was a good idea, think of something to do—

He watched her back, and his eyes hungry and willing and waiting.

…she couldn’t put this off now, could she? If she had to ad lib, she’d ad lib! 

She stood up off the bed, and held her arms out the side. “Strip me,” she ordered.

He stood up slowly, and gently took off her armour, undoing each clasp carefully. From the outside, it was maybe no different than how he had done it before. But there was an element of reverence in the way he handled each buckle, each tie, that hadn’t been there before. And there was an element of confidence too, as he knew exactly how much he would be taking off, now. And of course, a frisson of excitement too.

(Though maybe that was just her. …probably not.)

Soon, her armour was resting on it’s stand, and he’d even neatly folded her clothes and gambeson, and put them underneath the bed.

When he was done, he looked at her. Didn’t say anything, waiting to be told what to do next—but also definitely eyeing her. This would have to be the first time he’d seen her properly naked, she realised—not the side eyed glances of changing in the same tent, but a chance to take actual proper look.

His eyes alighted on her crotch. To someone who didn’t know him, it probably just looked like he was staring. But she knew him well enough to see the mixed wonder and desire sparkling in his eyes.

“You can touch, if you want,” she said.

He didn’t move.

She swallowed thickly. She’d have to give all the instructions—which she wasn’t against. Very much not against that. But it only made it more intense. “I would like you to touch,” she said, more husky than she expected.

He trailed his hand over her stomach, threaded his fingers through her dark patch of hair, before sliding them through her labia. He paused—thinking, feeling, searching—

“Right there,” she said, as his index finger landed on her clit. “Circles. Gentle circles.”

He complied. He was very, very good at complying. He made torturously slow circles, with just enough pressure to feel it but not so much pressure it hurt. This wasn’t the first time he’d done this, obviously, which was good. She wouldn’t have to show him all the ropes. (She quickly discarded the thought. Where he had learned this was probably—decidedly un-good, and she’d much rather focus on that teasing pressure.)

She put a hand on his shoulder, half to keep her balance, and half to squeeze the hard muscle there. She might have thought he was odd looking in the past, but past-her was so, so wrong. Maybe if she’d seen his face as he touched her clit, she’d see the light.

He was good, certainly. Heat and pressure pooled in her groin, and she could feel the first traces of slick coming out of her.

But he wasn’t as good as what she could do herself. Having someone else do it just wasn’t the same. Sometimes for the better, you can’t tickle yourself, et cetera—but there was also the delay between you telling and them doing, or you showing and them understanding—

And when you had a smorgasbord of willing drow, it made sense to do the things you very much could not do yourself. “Would you be up for using your mouth?”

He sank to his knees, kneeling in front of her, without even being asked yet. He was so adorably compliant. Not that she’d say that out loud. “If you want me to, I am more than willing.”

“Take off your clothes, and get on the bed.” Because she was not trying to do this standing up. Even if she didn’t fall over, trying not to would be more distracting than fun. And if he got to eye her naked, then she did too.

He stood up, just as fast and fluid as he had knelt down. He took his armour and clothes off, torn between stripping and giving her a proper show, and getting it off as fast as possible so he could get on the bed and do his duty. He ended up in the middle ground of aggressively business-like.

He lay on the bed, and watched her as she walked over.

She took a moment to admire him. Because of course she did.

He was well muscled and lean, but not in a skinny way. More in the way of having just enough fat, and no extra, and a lot of muscle to try and cover with that little fat. Scars criss-crossed his limbs, pale and silvery. About the amount you’d expect for a warrior, especially if he was more than a century or so old. It was—a good look. His cock was hard already, half risen up to his stomach. His eyes were bright as he watched her.

“You’re—” ‘cute’ might sound insulting, ‘handsome’ was true but incredibly cliché “—beautiful.”

He nodded, slightly, but otherwise gave no reaction. Certainly nothing as intense as the time she had said he’d done a good job.

She was mildly disappointed—but maybe that one was a once off. Or maybe she just hadn’t found the right lever to pull. She noted it anyway.

She climbed onto the bed, and hovered over his face. His hair tickled her thighs, still silky and fine despite how long ago he had washed it. She picked up his hands, and placed them so they gripped her thighs. “Keep ‘em here. And get to work.”

He gave her one long experimental lick, from taint to clit.

She supressed a shiver. It may have not been the most fun thing he could do—but he was touching her. With his tongue. And that was a thrill in itself.

He went to short licks, experimenting, trying to find what felt good to her from first principles. He dug his tongue into her labia, and gently flicked it across her clit.

She hissed. “That’s good. Keep doing that.”

The flicks kept going, in as close to the same position each time.

Tension filled her groin. It was so pinpoint and delicious—but not quite intense enough. Fun, but not enough. “More pressure. Please.”

He ratcheted up the pressure by degrees each time, trying to find the right spot. His tongue must be getting tired, but he was doing very well not to show it.

“There. Just there,” she said, as he hit that perfect spot of pressure, intense but painful, hard to deal with but not overwhelming. (Not yet.) “You’re doing so good.”

His hands squeezed around her thighs. Heat radiated from his face.

She couldn’t see him much passed herself, but she could see enough. 

He lit up like a goddamn bonfire.

So, compliments were definitely a thing with him. She was going file that away and take advantage of it. Take lots of advantage of it. All the advantage of it. 

“You’re so good to me. Look at you go. You’re so goddamned instructable.”

He was trying so hard to keep his hands still, keep them from squeezing too hard, keep everything but his tongue from moving. It was so adorable.

“You’re doing so well at pleasing me. You’re doing—so good.” She was running out of things to say, but he didn’t seem to care. She could probably repeat one thing, over and over, and it’d have the same affect as the first time.

His tongue finally flagged, but then he put his mouth around her clit and sucked.

It was so good. Intense—but she was close enough that intense was just what she needed. Hard and pinpoint and so much that it was almost painful, so much that it was actually painful but her brain could not help but turn it into heat and pleasure and tension building up in her.

She gripped the headboard, so she didn’t fall down on his face. “Good choice. Such a good choice. You read me so goddamned well.” Orgasm crashed over her like a wave. It may have been cliché, but it was true. She came like half a tonne of water fell on her, and she went under with it. It was intense, nothing registering but white0hot pleasure coursing through her, and the pressure on her clit, in a glorious feedback loop that pulled her down further.

It lasted five seconds. It felt like forever.

When she was finished, she slid herself backwards, sitting on his chest.

He looked up at her, slick all over the lower half of his face, and dazed look in his eyes.

“You good?” she asked.

“…yes?” he squeaked.

She wasn’t aware he was capable of _squeaking._ He just seemed too big and serious for that. It was dangerously adorable. She patted his hair. “Yes, you are, but I was also asking if you’re okay, and up for continuing?”

His voice went back down to his normal pitch. He looked up at her, reverent. _“_ If you would wan—” He swallowed thickly. “Yes. _Please._ ”

And how could she say no to a face like that? Especially when she still has a him at her disposal, and could definitely come one or two more times before she stops being the fun kind of over-sensitive.

She picked up his hands by his wrists, and crossed them over his head. “Keep them there. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes.”

She nodded—and realised there was no graceful way to do this. (Then again, Churoth’d probably think anything she did right now was the epitome of grace and poise.) She stood up off his chest, and scooted down the bed towards his crotch.

He was still hard. Impressively so. It was probably a little painful, too.

She straddled his hips.

His hands twitched, but he kept them still.

His cock was maybe on the small end—she wasn’t exactly going to get out a ruler and a table of statistics to check, but it seemed so. And that was good to her. Meant she could get it in her without it being work. She grabbed it by the base, and slowly slipped it into her. The slide was delicious, gliding along her inner walls with just enough friction to feel it, but not so much it was difficult.

She was right about it being just the right size. And a good shape, too. It was a little bent, but that just meant it followed the curve of her cunt beautifully.

She rolled her hips, once, twice, his cock sliding through her.

Another arm twitch, suppressed.

“You’re doing so well.”

Yep, he definitely blushed when you said things like that. It affected him. And she was definitely going to take advantage of that. She set a gentle, rolling rhythm, warming herself up again.

His arms tensed, but they didn’t move and inch.

She smirked. “You’re doing so good for me. Working so hard.”

“I’m not sure this –ah—counts as work.”

“To me it does.”

He flushed darker. Covered in sweat and slick, he looked like volcanic glass.

She kept rolling her hips over him. “Look at you, keeping so still just because I asked you to.” The slide of his cock in and out of her was wonderful. Not enough to get her off, but wonderful nonetheless, made better by the fact that she could keep this up pretty much indefinitely.

Not that she was going to do that. She was eventually going to get tired, and alas, all good things must come to an end. She reached a hand down to her clit, and started rubbing clumsy circles over it.

“Do you want me to--?”

“No, I want you to keep your arms just there.” She smiled. “It’s fun to watch you struggle.”

He was definitely having trouble with keeping still. He was tense from his fingertips all the way to his shoulders, arms shaking from the effort. He’d probably have found it easier to keep them still if he hadn’t been asked, if it wasn’t something he was paying attention to.

“You’re doing great.” He made a face, and blushed even darker, somehow. It seemed being praised was doing more him than her around his cock—which she was _definitely_ going to take advantage of. …In ways that would be fun and for the betterment of both of them, of course—but she was going to take _so_ much advantage of this. “You’re wonderful, you know that?”

He gasped, eyes squeezing shut involuntarily.

“Do you?”

“If you say so,” he said quietly.

“I want to hear you say it. If you can.”

He spoke even quieter, barely above a whisper. “Yes.”

She’d count that. She leaned forward, trapping her arm between their bodies, and kissed him. It was awkward, and sloppy. She was having to hold herself up one handed, and he had precisely no leverage with his arms above his head, and they were both _pretty distracted_. But it was fun nonetheless. Lips gliding against lips, tongues grazing awkwardly, trying to work out where to go, spit going very. Sloppy, awkward, but fun. ( ~~Motto of her sex life.~~ )

She sat back up straight. She was close. It was funny how she had almost not noticed? It was there, that pleasure and tension building up, but it was in the background, compared to the much more pressing matters of Churoth’s deeply adorable reaction to compliments. She increased the pressure and speed of her fingers over her clit. She was close, and it was just barely out of reach.

“You are so, so good to me. …I know I’ve said that, like three times already.” Ad-libbing: not necessarily her strong suit.

Another twist of the arm, as he tried to stay still. He was struggling with his hips as much as he was struggling with his hands, trying so hard to keep them from moving and only mostly succeeding.

And that image of him working so so hard to keep still, just because she asked, and that movement under her, was enough for her. She came, pulsing and squeezing around his cock, the fullness inside her changing the feeling of it. Spreading it more, making it less white-hot and pinpoint and more diffuse and warm.

She kept rolling her hips until the last shudders of it ended.

“We can stop if yo—”

She shook her head. She was over sensitive now, yeah, but the fun kind. Everything was almost too much, but only _almost_. “I want you to come. You’ve been so good to me, and you—you deserve it.”

He looked up at her, eyes sparkling. “You’re wonderful.”

Now it was her turn to be bad at getting complimented. She smiled awkwardly. “Thanks. You too.”

It didn’t take long for him to get close. Maybe another thirty seconds or so. His breath came fast and hard. “I’m—” he said, not quite able to get the last part of the sentence out. He grabbed one of his wrists, arm wrestling himself to keep himself still.

“That’s good.” She leaned forward, grabbing his wrists and pinning the, so he didn’t have to worry about failing. “You’re doing so good. Take your time.”

Which he really didn’t need to. He came quickly, losing his fight with his hips and thrusting up into her, with a guttural sound.

She let go of his wrists, patted the top of his head, and rolled off him.

“I could keep going, if you want to,” he said.

She looked at him. If she said he’d looked dazed before—well, she’d have trouble finding the right way to describe the way he looked right now. He may have physically been on a bed, but mentally he seemed to be rocketing up through the clouds, up into the night sky. He looked happy, certainly, but also pretty fucking out of it.

Also: tired.

She scratched the top of his scalp, and he leaned his head into her hand. “I don’t know, you look pretty done to me.”

His eyes closed. “I could do it—” said the most done man in the world, trying to convince himself he wasn’t.

“You’re still planning to follow me, right?”

He opened his eyes, and looked right at her. “Certainly. If you’ll let me.”

“Then we can do this again another time.” Which would be fun. Especially if they had prep time, or at least were at her actual house where she kept her toys.

(Using them on him while telling him he was very good sounded like a _highly_ entertaining afternoon. Or actually tying him up, giving him something to struggle against that wasn’t himself.

There was a world of very fun possibilities out there.)

“Okay,” he said, and then almost immediately fell asleep.

She stroked his hair, and fell asleep next to him.


End file.
